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Ars Goetia – Episode 9 (Paid-Members)
🕑 Added 2024-01-11 14:44:03 +0000 UTCWords Count: 4183
A/N: I’m sick as a dog. Hate this temperamental weather…
Over the tempestuous sea, Flight 37 rattles and shakes, sending jolts of fear through Cindy and Muriel. It looks like their hearts might give out any moment from sheer shock.
I can’t help but roll my eyes at their dramatic reaction. Sure, lightning can be scary, but it’s not like a little zap will permanently harm them. Most Supes can brush it off with a good night’s sleep. “Fine…” I mutter, annoyed, as I use the Power of Worthlessness to clear the sky with a snap. Dark clouds dissipate, revealing the Sun hanging at the foot of horizon.
“There you go. Now, stop screaming, please.”
With a flick of my wings, I fly towards the aircraft, only to furrow my brow when I notice the door is wide open.
“Huh? Someone beat us to it?”
As we enter the aircraft, I'm met with the sight of a redhead and a blonde.
Their fake, practiced smiles are warm and reassuring as they attempt to calm down the panicking and terrified passengers.
“Planelander, Maeve! How are you guys?”
The first looks pissed hearing my voice, his eyelids twitching incessantly as he stiffly turns to face me. “Goetia… Hey! Seems you brought guests!” If not for the fact we are in public, I am certain his eyes would have lit up like a pair of headlights. “Allahu Akbar!” The terrorist behind us yells his Cult’s catchphrase, aiming his gun at us. The bullets he shoots are abruptly seized midair, dropping like flies, though not due to my doing.
No, it was Cindy… Watching my little Telekinetic wields her powers with such skill and confidence fills me with overwhelming pride. They grow up so quickly, and what a real joy it is to witness. “Wait a fucking minute…” I tilt my head as I realize, “No headache?”
Is Yahweh having issues performing? Not that I judge, happens to everybody.
"You," I gesture toward one of the passengers, "You religious?"
The fat woman blinks in response and stammers, "Um, yes?"
“Pray…”
I order, and Homelander grumbles as he places his hands on his hips. "What is this? If you desired salvation, you should have sought out a Church. We’re handling things–"
“John,” I shoot the Supe a withering glare. “Please be silent for a moment. I won’t ask twice.” Though his lips purse in frustration, the Wonderboy obeys, as he ought to.
“Guess you can learn, after all.” I whisper, shoulder colliding with his as I approach the passenger. “Pray. Just… Recite whichever Verse you remember.” Mascaras smudged, she cups her hands together and mutter under her breath. “God–” I promptly halt her, feeling a twinge in my head.
It's not as severe as when I initially woke up, but it's still present. I squint my eyes, then shift my gaze back to the firearm-bearing terrorist. "Repeat that."
I challenge, and the self-righteous bastard, visibly shaken, smacks his lips nervously. “R- Repeat what?” Palming my face, I sigh tiredly. “Allahu Akbar, what else?” Cindy tugs once at my sleeve, wide-eyed. “Jon, you just–”
“I just said it… I just said a ‘Holy’ Verse.” According to the Pillars, Demons only get headache when talking about the Biblical God, or the God of the Israelites due to the Heaven System. This doesn’t take effect against any other God- the Olympians; the Norse; the Pure Ones of Taoism; not even the Mesopotamian Gods.
Their Divinities may hurt just as badly, but it’s not because we are oppositions, but due to the Nature of Divinity itself.
No headache means no God, or the wrong God / Pantheon, simple as that. “Oh… Oh, shit. That’s hilarious!” I hold a hand to my lips, but laughter keeps spilling from my mouth as I giggle. “Sorry, brother–”
“I’m no brother to you, filth from Hells!”
“Alright,”
I raise my arms in surrender.
“Well, you got a Quran there?”
Beckoning with a finger, I smile tauntingly, eager to test out my theory. The terrorists share confused looks, forcing me to snap my finger to gather their attention. “Gentlemen,”
I give them the look. “Your ‘holy book’, please.” My eyes glow, shinier than even the light bulbs as the terrorists finally concede, handing over a book with black cover and Arabic writing on the front.
I turn it once, twice then thrice, which does nothing.
“You know… I’m not supposed to be able to touch holy objects. Cross, Bibles, even the cheap, mass-produced accessories for the kids who think being religious is a character trait, they hurt to the touch.” My grin stretches all the way to my ears. “This doesn’t, which means–”
I wave cockily, waiting for them to think of the answer themselves.
“C’mon… Surely even you bunch of brainwashed assholes know how to fill in the blank?”
With a snap of my finger, the book erupts into flame, quickly turning to ashes. At least this proves the Abrahamic God is not a complete psycho who will crown anyone his ‘Prophets’. Guess even he can’t tolerate pedophilia after all… Although I suppose telling his worshippers to bash babies against rocks for the crime of being born in the wrong religion is just as bad, if not worse. Psalm 137:9: Blessed is he who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.
‘Only against your enemies, of course… And God’s, can’t forget that part.’
“A- Allahu–”
Homelander, having grown tired of this ordeal, lasers the terrorists before he even finishes his catchphrase.
His upper-half slides off with a wet smack, something I must admit is rather entertaining.
The sight though, sends the passengers quickly scurrying away in fear. The children scream in fear, the parents yell in outrage and I just slap my face in disappointment. I keep my silence, for if there’s anything I have learnt, it is the fact one never airs their dirty laundry.
Regardless of how annoyed I am with his actions, Planelander undoubtedly holds an important position in Vought. Damaging his integrity will damage the Corporation and hurt me in the process, something I simply cannot allow. “Really?” I hiss, my face unchanging, a practiced smile creeps its way to my lips as I hiss at him.
“Should you not be nursing your injuries and wounded pride?”
His gloved hands clench, “I don’t answer to you.”
“You should.”
I tell him casually. “’Cause you just took out the plane we’re supposed to save, you idiot.”
With my enhanced sight, I can see the now destroyed cockpit.
Fortunately, the pilot and his coo have avoided certain death by some miracles. The plane shakes again, and the pilot screams- horrified. “Homelander, Maeve! We’ve lost control of the plane, please help!” Only then, does the blond Wonderboy realize the consequences of his actions.
He doesn’t look the slightest bit remorseful though. The passengers take this as him still having things in control, but I know that can’t be further from the truth. I’ve fought with him a few times, and John Gillman, unlike Clark Kent, does not have the Biofield which lets the Blue Boy Scout perform feats that violate every laws of physics like an alcoholic stepdad living in a trailer with his stepdaughter, mainly the act of lifting a flying plane.
Even non-moving one isn’t possible for him, as the weight alone would have caused the entire structure to cave in on him, let alone a moving plane filled with passengers, most of whom are obese because…
Well… I would say America, but this is a plane flying from Paris to Washington DC, isn’t it? “Congrats, genius.”
I palm my face, “It’s… It’s like every lesson I taught you just went in one ear and exited the other.”
“Well, if you have an idea, I’m all ears.”
He looks rather cocky saying that… Not even a smidgen of panic on his face, actually.
It can’t be… There’s no fucking way, right? “Did you plan this?”
Homelander reveals his trademark smile, and I have to physically keep myself from punching his tooth out. “Madelyn wants in on the military sector.” He answers, and I immediately realize what he means. Homelander never planned on saving the plane or the passengers. He wants to kill them, then use the opportunity to spread propagandas that will give Vought an in into the military.
‘Are we really the Demon here?’
Even Belial’s dumbfounded, while Agares merely scoffs. ‘And this is why we refused to serve Humanity… They’re disgusting and foul creatures. Yet, the Master of the Heavenly Host was obsessed with them; he accepted them… All while demanding utter perfection from us.’
‘I was a human too. Don’t group us in with this fucking psycho!’
I grumble a protest,
‘Was is the keyword.’
And Belial adds condescendingly.
For the first time since… Ever, I genuinely contemplate killing Homelander. No amount of therapy is going to fix this bastard. It’s fucking impossible, and I don’t use the word lightly. “I’m going to kill you.” I practically spell the words out for the blonde, and despite the tough front he puts up, I can smell it- the fear wafting off of him in droves, mixed with sweats. “After I have gotten the passengers out, I’m going to kill you, Gillman. Nobody will remember you… No one will even care, I’ll make sure of it.”
Deep’s an idiot, but idiocy can be fixed.
Maeve’s more calloused than the actual callouses which once littered my palms due to years of hardships…
Translucent’s a fucking voyeur, but his crimes aren’t that bad, plus therapy can fix the guy up, probably… Coupled with a few beatings, I can clean the guy up, I’m certain of it.
A-Train is just your average jock who… Doesn’t care, but from his files, I know there are still hope for him.
I have nothing bad to say about Noir,
But Homelander?
He’s too far off the deep end. He needs to- Nay, he ‘must’ die before he starts blowing up the White House in a tantrum or something. I’ll have to tread carefully… Set up his death in a convincing manner. Psychopathic as Gillman is, his Supe Persona has managed to gather a substantial amount of following throughout the decades. Everybody knows he’s the strongest, and it’s publically acknowledged Homelander’s even stronger than I am, ‘Which is completely false, of course.’
I hastily adds as Pride practically roars in anger, even managing to rile up Wrath in the process. Point is, if he dies now, I’ll be the first suspect as the newest addition to Vought and a literal Demon, and as ‘God’s Gift’ to Mankind, ‘Damn Vought’s Advertisement / Propaganda Department… Damn their fucking Think-Tank too!’ The Vatican will be able to place all the blame upon me.
Even if I were innocent, which I wouldn’t be, the propaganda machine is strong, and it’s only been made stronger with the arrival of social medias and online News outlets.
The politicians, who have consolidated power through religion, will fan the flame no doubt.
“I won’t abandon these people to death just so you can play dress-up in military uniform,” I reply calmly, devoid of any anger or expletives.
“Nonsense! We’re still going to dress like this.” The blonde taunts. “Our costumes cost a lot to make.”
Engaging in a verbal confrontation with Homelander would be futile. Instead of anger or disdain, all I feel for the Supe is indifferent.
Homelander scoffs dismissively, saying, “Pffftt… What? You’re a Demon, aren’t you? Shouldn’t this outcome please you?” I’ll admit, I’m selfish- sinful- greedy beyond what mere words can describe, but this… I cast a glance at the trembling younglings; the shaking elders; “They’re just a bunch of mud-people.”
Even the overweight, upper middle-class people who take up the majority of the seats. Most of them have sinned, even the children, but that does not justify their deaths. Their doings are mere annoyances at best.
They have not done any great evil.
‘Ah… Is this frustration?’
It’s the same frustration when my parents died; the very same frustration when I realized I was in Hell for no crime other than disbelief… Even after dedicating my young adult life to protecting Humanity.
“You should’ve been aborted in the womb.” I tell the Supe. Psychological tactics aren’t my forte, but this isn’t to hurt Gillman- not at all, I’m merely vocalizing my real thoughts. “The likes of you–”
“Homelander!”
The pilot reaches us, disheveled and fearful. “Maeve, Goetia, please! We can’t control the plane anymore… The cockpit is on fire, and we are heading straight towards the ocean!”
He looks between the five of us- equal part pleading and demanding, “Do SOMETHING!”
Eyes closed, I shift my attention towards the frightened passengers and state. "If anyone wants to leave this plane, come over here! I can teleport you out!"
The passengers exchange strange glances before hurrying towards me in a chaotic manner, like a bunch of headless chickens high on crystals. "One person at a time," I declare, giving the disorderly crowd a stern glare and issuing a warning. "If you push or shove others, I will leave you behind." One shouts, the first person who has come forth actually, that also happens to be on the last row. “Y- You can’t do that!”
“Oh, can’t I?”
“YOU’RE A HERO!”
I smirk with disdain. “I’m a Demon first; a survivor second; a capitalist third and a whole bunch of other shit after those three, but a Hero? Dead-motherfucking-last.” Done with that whole spiel, I retrieve a cigar from my pocket, lighting it with Magic. “Now, scramble back to your fucking seat before I throw you off this plane.”
I pivot towards a flight attendant, whose face bears bruises and a black eye that appears swollen- on the verge of bursting, and offer consolations. “Love, could I trouble you to gather passengers from the other sections?” She appears distressed, understandably given the ordeal she has experienced, but still nods in agreement.
“Cindy, accompany her. I suspect the terrorists had assistance.”
It is highly improbable for the terrorists to have successfully smuggled weapons past airport security without assistance from an insider.
Granted, it is entirely possible that security measures were simply lacking, or perhaps I am overanalyzing the situation.
Nevertheless, it is always better to err on the side of caution. The Supes and I may survive gunshots, but the staffs and passengers won’t. “Now, line up, people!” Homelander grabs my shoulder, nails digging into my collarbone. It’d have hurt, if not for my recent power-up. “What are doing?”
He whispers in my ear, smile so… Stiff that the more observant passengers are able to discern something else is going on between us.
“This is our only chance, if we don’t seize it–”
“If you don’t get your hand off my shoulder, I will rip your arm from its socket and beat you to death with it, Gillman.”
Reputation be damned;
Consequences can suck my balls too. ‘Language,’ Agares chides. ‘We are Nobles, not savages, your Imperial Highness.’
‘Many will disagree.’
I chuckle at his reminder.
‘They can suck our balls.’
Agares states confidently.
‘Hypocrite much?’ I etch my Sigil onto the aircraft, then employ teleportation to instantly transport the initial group directly to Vought's entrance. “Muriel, it’s going to be a hassle, but I need you to heal the injured.” I don’t wait for her response, knowing Time’s of the Essence.
Afterward, employing the Enochian Rune, I swiftly return to the plane.
Why do I do this?
Well, the aircraft is currently cruising at an average speed of 575mph, and although Demonic Mana keeps us grounded to the Earth unless we leave its atmosphere, it does not extend the same influence to planes and other artificial objects. I would have been transported to a empty air without the Sigil, while the plane continues to plummet into the ocean. “Goetia, please take my child first!”
“Goetia–!”
“Goetia–!”
“Go–”
“Stop!” I exclaim, raising my voice. “Calm down, organize yourselves, and form a line, for goodness’ sake!”
I then direct my attention towards John Gillman, the fraudulent Superhero who appears to be rather constipated, and issue a command. “Put your abilities to good use and transport as many people as possible safely to the ground. Clear?” When it seems like he is about to protest, I glare, golden eyes flashing in warning.
“Maeve, you can’t fly, do you?” The Redhead shakes her head in denial. “Then stand still, I’ll get you off the plane with this batch.”
“Thank you, Goetia.”
She seems almost relieved, though not for herself, oddly enough. “Hold onto each other! Everyone ready?” They all nod, and another burst of light explodes, bringing us to Vought Tower. I do this three more times, managing to save every passenger and staff on-board with the exception of the two women Homelander’s bringing back… I did it just in the nick of time as the plane plummets into the Atlantic’s cold, blue depths, never to be seen again.
“Agares… Belial… I have a question.”
‘Ask away, your Highness.’
My lips twitch as a thought hits me.
“Could I have teleported the whole plane instead?”
A resounding, ‘Yes’, nearly floors me.
“We- Well, of course I know that!” I cross my arms, rubbing my nose in embarrassment as I try to do mental-gymnastic to save face. “I was just… I just wanted to test you two, that’s all!”
‘Uh-Huh… / Whatever you say, your Imperial Highness.’
"Furthermore, rescuing them in smaller groups is more advantageous for me. Yes, that's it!"
While it as an excuse, there are some truths to it, individuals seldom value actions that appear effortless.
This is precisely why comic books consistently depict Heroes facing challenges against characters who are obviously weaker than them based on feats, it generates higher sales and is best at capturing the readers’ emotions.
‘Yes, yes. Whatever you say, Prince Mammon.’
“…”
‘Your Imperial Highness?’
Agares sounds smug.
“Fuck you both.”
I distinctively catch the Sins giggling in the corner,
“Fuck all of you.”
Belial’s calm, collected voice replies.
‘I’m fairly sure that’s just called masturbat–’
I hiss angrily.
“SHUT!”
— Ars Goetia —
Homelander descends upon the Manhattan Police Department, his expression marred by the taste of something unpleasant, as he gently sets the two women down.
Their words of gratitude, "Homelander... Thank you," Accompanied by a kiss on his cheek, cause the off-brand Superman’s eyes to widen in surprise.
It's not the first time the Supe has received thanks for his ‘heroic’ deeds, but this moment seems to carry a weight that Gillman can't quite fathom.
There is something different in the gratitude shown by these women. Their eyes well up not with excitement for witnessing another demise, but with genuine appreciation.
Something stirs within Homelander's chest - something warm, beautiful, and inexplicable. But before he can fully embrace this feeling, a ruthless onslaught of guilt ruthlessly snuffs it out… As the women turn to enter the Police Station, a voice whispers spitefully in his ear, ‘They may seem grateful now, but they will turn against you the moment they see fit! Do not be tricked!’
It successfully eradicates the flicker of kindness he had mustered just moments ago, leaving behind naught but a cold emptiness.
Homelander stands tall, his posture oozing a regal demeanor, or at least what he deems as regal.
"Homelander!" The corners of his lips lift instantly as he waves towards the Officers. "Hey! I entrust them to your care. Can I rely on you to handle it?"
"Of course, sir!"
The Officers salute him, and Homelander takes to the skies. Plan A has failed, ruined by a fellow Supe. He must find a way to remove Goetia from Vought before the bastard usurps what rightfully belongs to him, and he must do so with haste.
— Ars Goetia —
Muriel approaches the cluster of individuals, engulfing them in flames. Their responses prove to be quite entertaining, in all honesty, but it doesn’t take long for the distressed personnel and passengers to realize that the blaze holds no agony; rather, it exudes a soft, comforting warmth which swiftly… Eases their exhaustion and weary bodies.
Regrettably, Muriel can only attend to one person at a time, severely reducing the time it takes to get everyone healed… Apparently, it takes longer to heal everyone at the same time.
In fact, rather than healing, it looks like she’s merely accelerating their natural healing factor. “I thought this was Phoenix’s Flame? Why is it so…” Chains rattling inside my mind, Phenex’s no doubt.
‘It is, your Imperial Highness. The challenge stems from the Wielder, not the Phenex’s Flames.’ Explained the Archduke of Dignitaries. It seems… Reasonable. Although I had high hopes for Muriel’s Flames, as told by Belial, it seems her lack of experience and limited Mana reservoir are hindering the Knightess’ potential. This is likely the best that Muriel can manage at the moment. I watch as she goes through the passengers, one by one.
I watch as the News Stations, having caught winds of what happened, drive towards Vought Tower like the Devil, pun intended, is on their tail. “Goetia, I’m from BBC News–!”
“I’m from CNN, just one question, pleas–!”
“Jaimie Rodriguez, from FOX News, can I–” I pinch the bridge of my nose as the group yells, as if afraid I wouldn’t be able to hear them. “For the– Ladies, gents!” I clap, “I told Flight 37 this, and I’ll tell you again: One at a time! And don’t yell. I’m not deaf.”
“Mr. Goetia, it’s said you can teleport, is this true?”
I nod. “Only to places I have been before. Vought’s Crime Analytics gave me Flight 37’s coordination, and what happened from there, you all can ask the passengers. Next!”
“Alison, from CNN, Mr. Goetia! I have heard this is your first ‘official’ high-stake mission, how are you feeling, sir?” I purse my lips, and throw on a contemplative expression. “Tired, I guess? Usually I go to sleep at 10PM, unless… Well, unless I have guests.” The reporter looks dazed by my answer, then blushes as she sees the teasing smile on my face. “But I’m guessing that’s not what you’re asking. Well, Ms. Alison, I feel… Good! All bubbly in my chest, although I certainly know a way to make this night even better.”
My gaze sweeps her body- the perky breasts that definitely aren’t too pieces of silicon sewn in her chest; the flat stomach; the lustrous hair cascading just inches above her buttocks, and those toned legs, further highlighted by the pair of shiny red high heels she walks on.
Alison softly coughs to hide her embarrassment, as I move onto the next reporter. One by one, they raise their questions and I address their concerns with practiced ease. Cryptid Hunters are expected to answer tough questions and keep things out of public eyes, after all. This is a skill all active Hunters are required to know, regardless of their age, gender or Rank. In fact, we even had annual test, and should a Hunter fail, they’d be forced to take an Acting Class.
‘Good time…’ Us Cryptid Hunters are a reclusive bunch, many of whom even had severe social anxiety. It was a hoot watching them make fools of themselves. Must’ve been the same for them when it was my turn.
Eventually, after five minutes, we circle back to Mr. Jaimie of FOX News. I knew this was coming the moment I decided to embrace my new Nature, but I’m not looking forwards to this. “Mr. Goetia, I only have one question to you, is your intervention… No string attached?”
I take a drag of my cigar, blowing out a skull-shaped smoke with a pair of tiny horns. “Well, Mr. Jamie, I’m sure you know there is no free meal in this world, but that is not what you are asking, are you? No…” I drawl patiently, my slit eyes meeting his with a hellish flame. Funny lil’ thing about Demonic Charisma? It works both ways. It can inspire fear just as effortless as it can love, lust and admiration. “What you really want to ask is, are their Souls now damned?!”
My raised voice successfully captures the attention of the staff and passengers whom I rescued, causing them to whirl around and look at us.
I grin, “And to that question, I’ll remind you again, many Demons deal in Souls, I do not. You religious nutjobs can rest assured, you’ll get to keep your Souls and enter God’s–” My teeth clench as pain stabs into the sides of my skull. “Divine North Korea. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even get to sit next to the Cherubim and sing ‘Holy’ for all of eternity.”
I rise, pushing fallen strands out of my eyes as Muriel finishes healing the flight attendant.
Everyone is a tad beaten up, but now that they’re A-OK, it’s high time we depart.
However, before I join them, I couldn't resist adding a bit of playful mischief.
Startling the cocky reporter, I let out a sudden "BOO!" Jaimie jumps, gripping his heart while I quickly make my exit, unable to hold back my mischievous laughter, mouthing at the reporter, ‘Coward!’
